A Trek of A Storyteller

Ch.21: Into The Storm

They woke up as they had each morning for the last month and a half, Jackson made breakfast and tea and they set off. It was a red sunrise and the boy pointed it out to the old man. He just nodded and got in the boat. The boy pushed them off.

He had grown into himself a bit more, although he was still scrawny and small he had gained some muscle, and with those red cloths stuffed into the toe of his old boots, they nearly fit. Not that he ever wore them anymore unless he was going into town for more soup or ingredients for a stew he found he could make.

They were in their first fishing spot in no time, casting their lines and untangling the weeds. They caught a few small fish but nothing worth keeping.

By the time it was high noon, a thick layer of clouds had covered the sun and the waves were jostling the boat, becoming white caps before they hit the shore. The wind picked up and the boy felt a mist of rain.

"Old Man Hemingway," he called over the crash of waves against the boat and the roar of wind. "I think it's a storm," he yelled. The old man just smiled and reeled in his line.

"Take us home, my boy," he said calmly. "Think of it as a test from the water. She's seeing if you're fit to be a sailor or not," he smiled. Despite the noise around them, the boy could hear him perfectly.

Jackson placed his fishing pole in its rightful spot and quickly lifted the anchor, picking up the oars and fighting against the waves. He struggled to get them above the waves and gritted his teeth hard as they were tossed by another wave. He heard the telltale boom of thunder. Wind was throwing sheets of rain in his face by now and there was no sign of light. He remembered how quickly storms moved across water.

He cried out in frustration, still fighting with all his might against the waves. His back ached in no time and his hands were growing raw, the oars nearly falling from his hands, slick with rain.

"Violent waters crash to shore, calm ones roll in," the old man called, voice almost blending in with the thunder. Jackson paused, breathed, felt the spray of a wave. He waited for the next wave and pushed with all his might towards shore. They moved towards it. He waited for another, heaved the oars.

Slowly, in an odd rhythm of rowing with Old Man Hemingway telling him which direction to go, they made it back to shore. He dragged the boat as far as he could up the shore and helped the old man inside, finding a change for him swiftly and turning away, making tea for them both.

"Now you know how to row through a storm," the old man said simply. Jackson chuckled and shook his head, water droplets falling from his hair into his tea.

"I should have known," he said, admiring his blistered and bleeding hands.

"A sailor always knows when a storm is due," Old Man Hemingway told him. "You'll not be going out tomorrow, not with those hands. Put marigold water on it first thing in the morning. And rest yourself, wake at noon and begin your day with an extra helping of soup," the old man added. The boy just nodded and sipped his tea.

He knew rest was far from him even without lightning alighting the room and the wind making the hut's bones creak. Comfort was too close for his taste.